


Thalassophilia

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian, Other, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 07:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: 4.4 and post-5.0. Crafter WoL.The Warrior of Light finds completion in a scholar of the seas.





	Thalassophilia

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to go off of at the time of this writing, but I hope it's cute nonetheless.
> 
> The majority of this fic is sometime around 4.4, the end is post-5.0.

Unwise though heeding rumors might be, in the case of your new patron, tales from Kugane’s citizenry prove alarmingly accurate:

_Odd_ is the most respectful description one might attribute to the reclusive scholar.

As much a hermit as the tiny crabs thriving in a container that takes up nigh the entire doorway, the scholar’s living space, if it can be called such, is barely _his_ at all. From roof to floor, the walls are lined with oversized tanks, their faint blue and green glows constantly illuminating the humid abode. From the entrance, his private quarters are visible as naught but a small bed and desk; stacks of tomes and reports take up more space than even his place of rest.

A brief glance into the pantry reveals only essentials, but the same care is not put into the variety provided to the wavekin; their stock of food is no less than thrice that of the scholar’s, as if the creatures he devotes himself to hold more value than his own well-being.

“They say you’re one of the best.” If he notes your judgement, he ignores it.

Mayhap this one won't challenge you with the same tired process you've suffered from countless artisans. No matter; the price he offers is worth the trouble.

“I am not looking for the best. _This_ is what the best has crafted.” He motions to the myriad of tanks, all of which seemingly fulfill their purpose. “Their creations are inadequate.”

A brief glance is evidence enough of the truth; the tanks are masterfully created. What else he might desire remains beyond your ken. “What exactly are looking for?”

“These specimens reside in a variety of ecosystems that occur at various depths, but the containers are limited in storage capability. They lose heat, or gain it too quickly, nor can they store individuals that make their home in the deep, for their bodies are incapable of tolerating the lower pressure present in the shallows.”

His explanation is sensible; while diving the depths of the Ruby Sea, the weight of the water makes swimming challenging and breathing difficult, even with the Kojin’s blessing. If a fish might live near Shisui of the Violet Tides, it likely has different physiological capabilities than any living on the surface – just like how a vertical change in elevation might leave one ill.

Satisfied with acknowledgement, the scholar lists his needs; as you mentally catalogue each, a strange, vibrant creature floats from an open tank. Seemingly bored by its master’s tirade, it approaches, slowly flapping glowing orange and blue wings.

Rising and falling, it observes, evaluating the new visitor. The specimen quickly settles on agreeable acceptance, butting its head against your hand for a light pet.

“Hello there.” You indulge, whispering quietly as stray fingers stroke is silky fins, not wanting to interrupt the scholar - an effort that fails nigh immediately as soon as the thought crosses your mind.

With an irritable sigh, the scholar motions for his companion’s return to his side. A futile attempt, it barely heeds its master at all and with a shake of his head, your patron approaches.

“Mine apologies, the clionid is terribly picky about his guests. I hope he didn’t attempt a stray bite.”

Gruff and hesitant, the scholar seems unaccustomed to apologizing.

“He caused no harm.” The clionid ignores his master’s hand, attempting to burrow itself between your arm and torso. With a slight push, you offer the larva so that it might be lifted by its master.

“Back to the tank –“ His hands brush yours as the larva is passed, and, without warning, electric energies from the graze jolt your body into action.

A unique, foreign sense, one you’d know anywhere, but have not felt since –

The scholar stills, his eyes glazing as the glow of his aether – different, this time, cooler, calmer, as if it relaxes rather than instigates defense – flows into your mind – a perspective far different than you’re accustomed to.

Aye, you _know_ this. The scholar has the Echo.

The scholar’s colorful companion flaps about excitedly, dancing on invisible energies flowing between its Spoken, seemingly celebrating its master’s Gift.

As quickly as it overtakes him, he shakes aside the vulnerability; his jaw set, the scholar eyes you with something between suspicion, interest and –

Is that embarrassment? There’s much he could have seen, but he carries himself with too much pride to admit any of it.

“Are you well?” You extend a steadying hand on his arm; the gentle waves continue, persistent but not overwhelming, almost as if –

-As if he’s in a constant state of resonance.

“Such attacks strike at most. . .inopportune times.”

_‘Attacks?’ _You’ve not heard them described in such a way. An inconvenience might be more accurate, for there have been times they put your life in jeopardy.

“Does this happen frequently?”

“Often enough.” Vague and evasive, the scholar reasonably has no intention of sharing, not with the stigma against the Echo widely spread by the Empire. But you are yet a Scion of the Seventh Dawn and, as such, you’ve a responsibility.

“We call if the Echo. Some call it the Gift.” You reassure with a smile, so that he recognizes your neutrality. “My companions have long researched its workings.”

The resonant energies continue to flow between you; what he senses, you cannot be wholly certain.

“I see.” Seemingly making his decision, your patron shrugs off your touch, taking the clionid in his hands and placing it in the tank as if the distraction ne’er occurred. “Is our agreement sufficient?”

If that is his wish, you’ve no choice but to abide by it.

He pays handsomely; surely his fish must be highly sought after that he can toss such funding at someone he doesn’t know at a whim.

Or, mayhap the Echo reveals all necessary information; he does not even seek to test your competence.

How strangely comforting, to be on the receiving end of such visions – to have your measure gauged and to pass.

You nod, offering a hand in agreement. His is an insurmountable task, one you’re uncertain you’ll be able to complete, but you’re not one to back down from challenge.

“Let us begin.”

* * *

A ‘flying fish.’

With broad fins, there are few names more suitable.

“Leaping from the waves, their fins allow them to glide through the winds,” He explains with a firmness belying experience as a lecturer, though after such time together, he lacks the professional distance typically attributed to one.

In truth, ‘lacks’ is wholly inappropriate, for his hand lifts yours, using a finger to trace the outline of the specimen’s fins from outside the tank.

“’tis not true flight, like a bird’s.”

Half a world away and the fish have such striking similarities to those in Eorzea, even while differing so drastically.

If only you could heed what he was saying with his breaths so heavy in your hearing.

“In Eorzea, the aether is heavily concentrated and we’ve fish that truly soar the skies by manipulating the wind’s aether. But –“ Your lips brush his cheek as you half turn, unable to do more in such a compromising position, motioning to his colorful companion as it swims the air as it might the seas. “I don’t suppose that’s unique.”

He lifts your chin, grazing your lips with his as you return your focus to the glowing, aether-lined tanks; the scholar is so prideful in his work, so responsible and delicate, with a deep, unmatched love for the lives he oversees – and a passion to share that knowledge with those who might listen.

And you’ve certainly such a desire.

Unfortunately, such pride lends him to perpetual disinterest in any tales of adventure that you might offer in return. He’s far more interested in the historical effects of the Flood on Gyr Abania’s ecology than any floating continents. When so much he says that amazes, there’s frustration in your inability to contribute to his interests.

You know the land and skies, but he is the untouched depths of the sea, where even the strongest rod and bait cannot reach. 

An odd pair you make.

Long is your duty complete and yet each sun you return, after all other prices are paid, requesting lectures or discussions on every specimen in his care - and ones he does not, accepting even his wistful looks of longing.

And so easily he obliges.

You’d not have your time end.

“Tell me of your journeys.” He murmurs suddenly, distracted from the favored new specimen that flickers glowing blue, as if knowing your thoughts.

Mayhap he does, through the continued comforts of his resonance.

Or, mayhap, he recognizes the same truths you have.

No matter; he gifts the opportunity so rarely that you’d sooner not disappoint.

“In the Sea of Clouds, where the air freezes your breath and the wind aether is thick enough to taste, I encountered Bismarck, the Lord of Mists.”

Resting upon your hand, cool, flowing energy passes from flesh to flesh. Like waves of the sea, you’d know his Echo and essence anywhere, ne’er to confound the touch, the taste – the _color_ – with any other individual.

“A flying whale.” He seems amused and, once more, you cannot but wonder the circumstances in which he learned such control of his resonation.

“A myth given life through prayer. But, certainly, there’s truth to it somewhere, for His is a legend known outside His summoners.”

“Our sailors tell a similar tale: a captain’s all-consuming hatred for a white whale.” He has never spoken of ‘tales’ before; so rarely does he speak of _anything_, so rarely impassioned by aught except his work, that the warmth of life in his voice makes you smile. “The captain spent his life pursuing the whale in misbegotten belief that its death would soothe his anguish. A fool’s notion.” He firmly chastises, but the infrequency of his shared opinions makes the statement more shocking than agreeable.

He is close now; focused on his voice and tale, you’d not noticed how he pulls you in, swallowing you in his embrace.

His arms encircle your waist and, this time, ‘tis not the gift that rouses warmth through your flesh or courses prickles across your skin.

Soft fingers trace indistinct patterns across the top of your hands; his heavy breaths are hot against your neck as they follow a trail of kisses, each more passionate than the last in his growing confidence.

Slipping into coolness that is his essence like you might be swallowed by a maelstrom, he blinds you to Kugane’s heat and the warmth of shared flesh; so near, his resonation shares will and desire, revealing thought and intent – _knowing _the affection he never dares put to word.

“I would like to see them someday.” He quietly admits. “The _Echo -_” He plays with the word as his hands cautiously roam unexplored flesh. “- is. . .insufficient.”

You needn’t know resonation as he does to understand; you’ve no more need for words.

“Partner to the vaunted hero. . .?” For the first time, he reveals the truth of what he’s seen; there’s no mockery in his praise.

He_ knew. _

Of course he did, he resonates nigh constantly.

His admission proves truth undeniable:

This brief fantasy nears its end.

You could not ask. _Never_. He has his role and you’ve yours and you’d ne’er ask him to deny his passions.

‘tis true that a visit is just a teleport away but. . .

“I. . .will consider it.”

“I couldn’t –“

“Eorzea’s aether might prove beneficial to their. . .circulation.”

A pathetic excuse, shallow and untested, and you both know it. And yet -

How right it is, for him to hold you and touch you, that his hands cling to yours. How he completes you as no one else might.

“I am alive with you.” He murmurs the admission for you both. “My studies bring me fulfillment, but -” Quietly, so quietly, he whispers, barely accepting the truth himself. “- I would not lose a part of me I’ve only just discovered.”

He releases you.

“I need some time for consideration. Return at midday tomorrow, I’ll have an answer then.”

When you return, the scholar ne’er arrives to greet you.

Not that day, the next, nor the next.

Nor e’er again.

* * *

He knows those robes.

“Already it begins.” The one he recognizes as ‘Ascian’ observes from a mere pace away. “It seems we owe the Warrior of Light our thanks.”

The _Warrior of Light_ knows them, to be more precise, but as with any other image shared, he holds it tightly, branding it to memory and penning it to parchment so the record is ne’er lost.

The robed guest expects questions, but he has no intention of playing their game; if the Ascian wishes for discussion, he must divulge intent and information freely.

He crosses his arms over his chest; he is a scholar foremost and empty, toying words are to be dismissed.

“If you intrude into my home and expect a welcome, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Speak plainly.”

“Mine apologies. Ours is a private discussion.” The individual lacks hostility, but his bow is mocking enough. “Prolonged contact with your partner has had. . .lasting effects.” He needs not elaborate; resonation reveals his certainty.

Visions – memory – of destruction and pain.

Of overwhelming regret.

Of failure.

He dismisses rousing memory before it might bear its full might, but not quickly enough that it escapes the notice of his strange guest.

The Echo, the Warrior calls such visions – a _gift_, if one that only ever brings suffering.

“Your soul returns to its natural state.” The guest knows his thoughts as easily as he knows his partner’s and, though he is loath to admit it, there is some comfort in sharing skills that have otherwise ostracized him, no matter the individual bearing it.

“How complete this process is depends on your choices.” The Ascian continues his vague digression.

“I believe I requested you speak plainly.”

“Fragile, half complete. A burden. Futilely concealing your emptiness through focus on work.”

His jaw clenches.

“Until you chanced upon the other half of your soul. _How_ your hero must gleam. Guide, savior, guardian –“

The Ascian needs not continue, his truths are plain enough for even a babe.

He is unworthy.

To have the same gift he’s previously used to judge others turned upon him, reading him so easily that he might be a tome for teaching children, proves disconcerting enough that he needs no longer wonder why he is viewed as inhuman.

But he does not need an intruder to tell him as much. “Your intrusion disrupts my studies and it seems you intend to do naught but insult.” What a disappointment this Ascian is. He is not nigh so curious as those he knows from shared memory. “I’ll ask once more: what is your purpose?”

The Ascian chuckles; the scholar has no ability to combat such a being, but he needn’t tolerate his presence. “I assure you, I’ve only the best intentions.”

‘tis no wonder that they come into conflict so often; they simply refuse discussion, dancing about their words in irritating games.

“Half memories might become whole. Emptiness at last filled with rightful duty, regaining what you’ve lost. You might even regain _them_.” 

Emptiness.

Yet further the Ascian preys, knowing fears the scholar does not reveal – even to himself – all while confirming his partner's truths.

If his skills might be mastered, then -

“What do you propose?”

“Ascension. That we might preserve and restore. That you might be with your partner as an equal, if that remains a whim.”

Preserve and restore. . ._what_?

But the rightness in the statement stops him from questioning, as does fulfillment’s temptation.

“What does this process entail?”

The Ascian lifts a hand, the tip of its long, sharp claw sharp against the scholar’s chest.

_Look. Learn. Remember._

* * *

He would have loved Anyder.

Naught but a stray thought brought upon by the chill waters of the lake – of the flash of sunlight against the scales of fish he’ll ne’er see.

By no fault of Tataru’s, she proves inadequate companionship in this most lonely time. It is not for them to witness a savior’s sadness; they celebrate only your success – just as you’d have it.

If you try, you might yet convince yourself ‘tis the truth, for such foolhardy notions were intended to be banished before you delved into the Tempest.

So thick is brood and aether both, you only notice the disruption in the veil after it passes; it tears more than tingles, its presence leaking of foreign aether where previously absent. In an area so thick with the energies, such loss and gain are insignificant and replaced nigh instantly, but you recognize the arrival of a guest.

Compared to Mor Dhona's constantly dancing astral aether, this presence calms to depths unknown, only the slightest disruptive flow at its surface. Like the stillness of an untouched lake, it not only soothes, but its simple waves are unrelenting, unyielding even to the strongest force it encounters.

Impossible. Yet through denial, _his_ hands make their way down yours arms, each resonant, chill touch proving the possibility in impossibility.

He’s come to you. In Eorzea.

If lingering memory of absence did not hurt so, you’d swear yourself dreaming.

You close your eyes and refuse to let blossoming tears release. Simply indulging in the moment, your head falls back into his warmth.

‘tis different than you knew; he’s stronger.

Yet, ‘tis undeniably the same.

How _right _he is, his essence filling a hole you’d not recognized until its return.

An unnatural light breeze on your cheeks proves unpleasant distraction enough in the moment that you open your eyes with disdain, only to see a familiar glow of orange and blue nigh more than a few ilms away; his tiny clionid companion greets with such excitement that the last vestiges of irritability are impossible to grasp for long.

So many words seek to spill from you – a request for explanation, anger at being left, scolding him for worrying you -

But none leave your lips, not with the way his mouth trails, completing a journey started only upon your last meeting.

“You came.”

Trapped between satisfaction and yearning, you would have this instant remain bells, suns, cycles -

“How long it’s been. . .” His voice harsh and low as you remember.

The clinoid pushes himself under your hands, his feathery fins silken under your fingers.

He has missed you too.

“I thought –“

“Even now, the seas between us swell with uncertainty.”

Such indirect formality is unlike him, but you’ve no opportunity for further consideration, not with unintelligible whispers against your neck lightly caressing your hearing.

You needn’t know the words; his voice is enough.

Instinctively, his name leaves your lips, breathy and gaspy and low.

He stills, trembling slightly at your back. “True names are to be kept for private. Where we might be seen, we must address each other with titles.”

His hands fall, twining fingers in possessive grasp.

“For now, I am Mitron.”

That name-

You turn, releasing one hand from his as your stomach flops and your heart pounds.

Red and purple and black, silken robe and harsh metals both; you should be horrified at what he is – what he’s _become_.

Yet, tracing the hard edge where mask meets flesh, after what you’ve seen and knowing what such represents, ’tis not nigh so appalling as it once might have been.

Through resonation, Mitron knows your calm and, he, in turn, relaxes under tender ministrations.

Slipping into place, the last pieces of the puzzle fit e’er so rightly as sadness turns to nostalgia, warm echoes of his lectures filling empty memory’s halls.

Now, half complete, just like you –

“We’ve much to discuss.”

You return the loosed grasp, ne’er to let go.


End file.
